Demons
by AgentNoSmile
Summary: Spencer Reid had done many interrogations, and this one was to be just another run of the mill interview. He was wrong; evil has no limits, and demons don't just hide under the bed anymore... WARNING CONTAINS SENSITIVE AND POTENTIALLY TRIGGERING MATERIAL GRAPHIC NC-17 SCENES OF SEXUAL ASSAULT


"You ready to go in?" Hotch looked at Spencer, as they looked into the dim-lit interrogation room, only a pane of reinforced glass between them, and a dangerous UnSub. Spencer nodded and looked up from the case file in his hand;

"Yeah, yeah, I'll meet you in there," he scurried into the room and sat down awkwardly. He looked up and locked eyes with a corporeal representation of pure evil. This same evil stared back coldly. Hotch walked back through to the mezzanine, to the coffee machine and pressed the button, obtaining two cups of coffee. He was about to turn back to join Spencer, when Morgan stopped him, and caught him up with a case update. The dark, abhorrent eyes of Graham Kayson gleamed with malice as he rose, slyly making his way to the doorway. Spencer eyed him with justifiable suspicion, and he swallowed thickly as he heard the sound of the door lock click. The sound seemed to echo around the small room's air, which was now heavy with wrong. Graham didn't remove his eyes from Spencer, he only edged closer and closer, his hands trembling, though with latent excitement, rather than fear. It had been easier than he'd thought. _One last victim _he thought to himself and stroked the longish brown hair of Spencer Reid. Spencer tried his best to remain calm, and even though he was a legitimate genius, he couldn't for the life of him figure out what he was going to do to get out of this.

"You killed six men," Spencer uttered hoarsely, his voice rigid with fear;

"You allowed me to," he hissed back in recrimination.

Spencer turned, his frantic eyes darting for someone, anyone, but the interrogation rooms were away from the mezzanine; they were all alone. _Oh God, Hotch, please come back _he pleaded silently. Graham's hands slithered around Spencer's throat in a violent chokehold, one hand grappling higher to silence his cries. He fought to be freed from these evil hands, but it was futile. Spencer let out repeated stifled screams of unadulterated terror, as Graham ripped open the buttons of Spencer's shirt, his ragged nails splitting the skin and making him write in sheer anger, humiliation and pain. He felt an all-consuming nausea because now he knew what was going to happen. He felt the hands shove him onto the table, ripping his zipper open.

Hotch walked down the narrow corridors, with coffee in hand and he stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes became clouded with confusion, then fear, before eventually reaching scorching fury. He threw the cups of coffee to the floor, their boiling contents cascading up the wall. He ran to the door and shook the handle furiously throwing his shoulder as hard as he could to break the door down;

"MORGAN!" he screeched, his voice strangled and shivering with rage. Derek Morgan ran as fast as he could with Prentiss, Rossi and Garcia in tow; all of them hearing the tone in their usually unflappable boss. The look of shock and pure horror ran across the faces of the team like a freight train, startled, before they jumped into action. Graham looked behind him at the concerned faces of the team and grinned in sickly malevolence. He forced himself into Reid's opening, he removed his hand so he could revel in the screams, and show every onlooker that he was not the least bit impotent, as had been claimed. Spencer screamed, his eyes streaming agonized tears as the searing pain stormed through him. He could feel a warm, wet substance trickling out from his insides, a mixture of blood and the result of Graham's evil conclusion. He whimpered Hotch's name, as he was thrown to the floor and kicked. Graham spat on his face and chuckled in ultimate wickedness.

Hotch closed his eyes in agony, still hitting the door. Morgan and Rossi finally lifted a huge trash can between them and threw it through the window, sending shards of glass in every direction. Morgan vaulted himself over the shattered frame and grabbed Graham roughly, slamming him up against the wall;

"You son of a bitch! I oughta kill you!" Morgan yelled, his voice crippled, and oozing with contempt. He began to rain punches down upon Graham's head, uncontrollable rage his driving force. Hotch jumped in and ran to Reid, turning to shout at Morgan;

"Morgan! Enough! Get that guy out of here!" he growled, his eyes turning back to the crumpled heap on the floor that was Spencer Reid. Rossi grabbed Morgan and forced him to the table;

"Morgan! Stop," he used a firm voice, but if he was totally honest with himself; he wanted to the same. Morgan pushed Rossi off, and grabbed Graham's hands forcing them behind his back, dragging him to the door, he unlocked it;

"He knows he wanted it, he loved it," Graham smirked and licked his lips;

"Such a sweet ass," he closed his eyes and laughed maliciously. Rossi strode over to the door way and punched his nose so hard he heard it crack.

"Get this animal out of here," he hissed, and Morgan dragged him out of the room, Rossi in tow. Prentiss and Garcia stood frozen in the hall, staring into the room with empty eyes, and tear-stained faces. They were overwhelmed with shock and devastated that such a harrowing thing could have happened to one of their own in a place they thought they could feel at least relatively safe.

Hotch bent down slowly and reached his arms out to lift Spencer into his arms. Spencer's eyes flicked up suddenly and he lashed out, kicking Hotch square in the calf; his eyes fearful and confused. He pulled his trousers on roughly, ignoring the blood that was now pooling beneath him. Hotch backed off a little, wincing in pain and rubbing his calf.

"Reid...Spencer," his tone was soft and soothing;

"It's alright, it's gonna be alright," he hoped the uncertainty in his voice was not evident, although Spencer seemed unaware of anything at this point. He pulled his shirt around his naked, raw flesh, and hugged himself tightly, shaking. He climbed unsteadily to his feet and bolted out of the door of the now tainted took off after him, shouting his name;

"Spencer! Spencer!" he ran faster, trying not to lose him, he narrowly missed running straight into the door Spencer had forcefully slammed in his haste to escape. Spencer finally collapsed against the railings that bordered the BAU offices, his breathing raspy and his face sodden with tears and sweat. He gripped the railings until his knuckles turned white, his whole body frail and hardly supporting itself. Hotch approached him cautiously, his hand safely resting on his shaking shoulder. He squeezed it lightly in a comforting motion, unable to say any words that would bring solace to the broken shell that stood before him. He only pulled the younger Agent into a hug, almost smothering him with the tightness; he felt if he could hold him tight enough, he could stop him from falling apart. Spencer pounded at Hotch's chest with his fists, whimpering hoarsely;

"No...no...no...no..." his voice trailed off into a defeated and heartbroken silence. He finally gave up his resistance, and allowed himself to fall into Hotch's arms and he sobbed; he sobbed until he was completely hoarse, until there was nothing left to feel, his eyes had dried up.

Hotch closed his eyes and cradled Spencer in his arms, a thousand thoughts raced though his mind, hitting radically into each other like energized atoms. What could he say? Nothing could take away the sordid, tragic events of this day;

"Spencer, we need to get you to a hospital," Hotch said soothingly into his ear. Spencer shook his head violently, his voice remaining as broken as glass.

"Spencer you're...bleeding, bruised. You were...violated," Spencer looked down at the floor at these words, the shame blazing unfalteringly on his porcelain cheeks.

"I...I...can't," his voice barely made the air. Hotch rested his hands on Spencer's shoulders and leaned down to look into his eyes.

"I'll be there the whole time," he replied, his voice inviting and kind. Spencer looked up, his eyes perplexed, as he thought about those words.

"You'll be right next to me, the whole time?" he narrowed his eyes, unsure if he should trust these words;

"I'll be right next to you, the whole time," Hotch reaffirmed, his fingers chucked his chin, his other hands stroking the hair from his face in a soothing manner.

"Okay," Spencer swallowed thickly, and leaned upon Hotch for support. He gently helped him into his FBI-issued car, and fastened his seatbelt securely, but gently around him. He climbed in beside him and started the engine. Spencer stared blankly ahead, his eyes fixating on everything and nothing at the same time. To look at him, you would think he was in some sort of trance. It was like some invisible force was fixing him in place, hidden tendrils keeping him compliant with their icy, cold touch. Hotch drove slowly to avoid bringing any more pain to spencer. They reached the hospital and Hotch pulled the car to a stop in the parking lot. They looked at each other, and Hotch jumped out of the car and round to open the passenger side door. He allowed Spencer to once again lean on his shoulder, as he eased him into the hospital waiting room. He gently laid him across three spare chairs and walked up to the reception desk, his reluctance to leave Spencer, even a mere two meters away, was all-encompassing.

"Hi, I'm Agent Aaron Hotchner, my friend needs a SART exam," he said to the receptionist in hushed tones. She glanced over to where Spencer lay ashen and unresponsive. She tapped hastily on her computer;  
"What's his name?" she asked without looking up.

"Spencer Reid," he cleared his throat, and tapped his fingers lightly on the desk. She finished typing finally, and printed out the record she had located, along with a form;

"I'm gonna need you to sign this form, and take him to exam room one," she smiled, her pity was evident. He nodded and signed the form, before returning to Spencer's side. He picked him up with ease and carried him to exam room one, where the receptionist has directed him. He placed him on the bed and smiled faintly;

"I'll be right here," he stroked his hand softly;

"I'll help you fight the night,"


End file.
